Echoes of Green
by Araceil
Summary: Drunken escapades lead to Mukurou showing everyone their past lives, only some aren't as happy as others. Poland, 1944, Auschwitz, "Become my love again?", "Yes.", "You'll find me again?", "I will.", "I love you.", "I - I love you too." And then the gas came. Gokudera/Harry (Firecracker). Slow updates.
1. Chapter 1

_**000**_

**ECHOES OF GREEN**

Drunken escapades lead to Mukurou showing everyone their past lives, only some aren't as happy as others. Poland, 1944, Auschwitz, "Become my love again?", "Yes.", "You'll find me, right?", "Yes.", "I love you." And then the gas came.

Hayato Gokudera / Harry Potter  
Detlef Brandt / Ulrich Himmelreich

**Warning**  
Angst.  
A fuck ton of angst in the beginning chapters.  
Slash, character death, substance abuse, nazi-atrocities described.

_**000**_

**Chapter One  
The End of Us**

"No... no... it can't – you can't – " he croaked, eyes wide as he stared at the bruised, skeletal man in front of him. His head roughly shaved, his mottled skin drawn tight over sharp bones, decorated with filth, bruises and dried blood from cuts and scrapes, now sceptic. It felt like the bottom of his world had just dropped out from beneath him. So different from the young man he knew.

He wheezed in horror and disbelief, feeling his legs, weakened from starvation, bruised and blistered from work and abuse, give out under him.

He hit the filthy concrete floor hard with a hoarse moan, "No... Ulrich, no they, how did – you're not... not supposed to be here!" he rasped.

Cold fingers gently touched his cheeks, he couldn't stop himself from leaning into the touch, "I'm sorry Detlef, I'm so sorry. But I couldn't. I couldn't leave you to face them alone, face this alone," he explained softly, his voice near silent for how weak it was as he knelt on the floor beside him. Both of them were bare, thin beyond imagination, with eyes only for each other, heedless to the tightly packed chamber of men around them, just as filthy, bruised, and starved as they themselves. Heads shaved bare, numbers crudely tattooed upon their forearms.

"How did you..."

"I followed you. The trucks. I did favours for the resistance in exchange for information. I came to find you, to get you out, but... I was caught. I've been labouring in the cotton mill at Silesia until now," he explained softly hands stroking his cheeks and then finally folding around him and for a moment, just a heartbeat, Detlef could imagine they were back in Munich. Back in their flat. Slow dancing to the radio. Reading a book together in front of the fire. But the illusion didn't last, couldn't last. Not when Ulrich was so thin, not when he trembled constantly and his breath rattled in his lungs with illness he tried to hide, not when their stomachs burned and their bodies ached and the cold reality of their surroundings wouldn't let them.

"I did it so you could live," Detlef breathed, his arms coming up to return the hug. He had willingly walked to the Nazis when they broke into their tiny safe-house, he had covered his love's mouth and nose, forced him to sleep and then hidden him beneath the floorboards and allowed himself to be escorted away. Glad that he had been able to protect the one person that had ever truly mattered to him. He went his his head high.

"There could never be a life I want without you," Ulrich told him firmly, his voice scolding. For all his weaker body, his heart was strong and his will was greater than Detlef's, his determination and kindness as wide and endless as the sky itself.

Ulrich drew back as the doors of Block 11 bolted shut with a shriek of metal, and he smiled, hands stroking down Detlef's hallowed out cheeks, his eyes soft as he memorised as much of his face as possible, imprinting it onto his heart, his soul.

"I'm glad I found you. So glad," he breathed.

Tears burned Detlef's throat shut, and his eyes ached for moisture his body was too broken to give. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't. "We're going to die," he whispered hopelessly.

Ulrich nodded peacefully, still smiling, his eyes shut as he kissed the other man's forehead, "Yes."

The Germans could pretend all they wished. Lie and give false promises. But only death awaited at the Camps.

His arms came up, wrapping desperately around Ulrich and drawing him close as he huddled against the wall, tears finally squeezing from between his eyelids, leaving burning trails down his cheeks, cleaning the filth from his flesh as he buried his face into his love's skeletal chest.

"I'm scared," he whispered brokenly, feeling something hard and thick rising in his chest, like a still living organ, thick and red and living, "I don't want to die," he sobbed into Ulrich's chest as the man held him tightly, rubbing his back and head, as if he still had hair.

Ulrich hummed and pressed another kiss to the crown of his head, saying nothing as he just held him.

"Aren't you?" he asked softly, looking up at him through blurry tear-filled eyes.

He smiled, "No. I thought I would be, but I'm not," he admitted quietly to his shock. But those beautiful green eyes were clear and bright and honest. Green eyes that he first fell in love with. Green eyes at eight years old in the village market place, bright and happy in a cherub face, surrounded by a halo of blond curls, freckled cheeks dimpling with delight at the summer sunshine. His love leaned down and kissed his cheeks, his tears away. "I was more afraid that I wouldn't find you. That you would be dead before I could see you," he explained softly.

A loud metallic clang filled the air and several people started screaming as, with a loud hissing woosh, the vents high up in the walls suddenly poured thick acrid black smoke into the room. The men began to panic, screaming and yelling, forcing their battered abused and starving bodies to move as they rushed the doors, beating their fists against the metal, begging, pleading to be let out.

Detlef tightened his grip on Ulrich, the two of them watching from their place on the floor.

A calm washed over him as Ulrich shifted, pulling away and tucking himself down against his side, delicate fingers gripping his work rough hands, lacing their fingers tightly, and looked up at hi with those clear green eyes that was nothing but him. He smiled and leaned up, kissing him sweetly on the mouth, saying a thousand things without a single word as the gas washed over them, blinding them to everything but each other.

"Become my love again?" he asked as they broke away, foreheads pressed together.

Detlef nodded, "Yes."

Ulrich's smile was painful, tears streaming down his cheeks as gas burned them red and sore, he coughed violently and kissed him fiercely, tasting of blood and tears. "You'll find me again?" he asked, his voice cracking with grief.

"I will," Detlef promised, holding tightly.

"I love you."

"I – I love you too."

_**000**_

_I love you_.

Hayato gasped, his eyes snapping open. What – that –

He jerked upright, his eyes wide as he stared at the far wall, breathing hard. Ulrich. Ulrich. Ulrich with green eyes. Ulrich who _loved_ him. Ulrich who _he_ loved.

Ulrich Himmelreich. And... And... Detlef. Detlef Brandt.

Block 11. Death Block. Poland. Auschwitz.

Victims of the nazis. Homosexuals. Homosexuals who had been... been gassed in Auschwitz.

Detlef. He had been Detlef.

He was Detlef.

Ulrich...

His eyes began to burn, he felt cold, he _had_ him, just now, he could still – still _feel_ him! There! In his arms! He could – where was he? _Where_ was he?

His breath began to come out quicker as his body trembled.

"-traditional Romanian Gypsy. Around the early 1600's by the dress and technology of the time," Reborn was saying, somewhere distantly, the words holding no more meaning than static on a radio. Crackling in the background.

"Think that's bad? Christian Missionary in Tibet. 1800's. I was a fucking nun. A _Virgin_ nun. Hell," Shamal complained in dismayed amusement, "Guess I'm making up for lost time in this life. What about you, kid?"

"Um, nothing," Juudaime's voice admitted, seemingly underwater, unintelligible, "Just... warmth, and light. I was happy."

"Kufufufuuuu... That's because Tsunayoshi is a new soul, pure and uncorrupted," Mukurou's strained and pain filled voice explained somehow managing to filter through the fog of his mind, through the rising distress.

That was right. They had been drinking. Reborn had goaded the Mist Guardian about his eye and the six paths, he couldn't remember what _exactly_ was said, but it had been enough to convince the Mist Bastard to show them their past lives. Putting them into dreaming comas where they would relive their last – their last moments... Which meant...

'_You'll find me again?_'

A shaking hand covered his mouth as the sound of Juudaime questioning that Lawn-head washed over him, deaf to his ears as he swallowed back the moan of pain and disbelief that rose thickly in his chest. He was going to throw up.

"Hey Tako-head! What about – oi, Hayato? Are you – what happened, are you okay?" Ryohei suddenly demanded, his eyes widening as he realised their Storm Guardian was shaking violently, hand over his mouth, staring sightlessly at the far wall, cheeks streaming with tears, horror and utter heartbroken devastation etched across his features.

"Auschwitz," he managed to croak.

Ryohei blinked, glancing to the others. Tsuna clearly didn't know what he meant either by the look of confused anxiousness on his face. But Reborn and Shamal had stopped laughing, their expressions frozen. Mukurou's face may as well have been carved from ice and Dino looked as if someone had murdered his turtle.

Hayato staggered to his feet, "I need to – I have to – " he sprinted out of the room to the nearest toilet.

_**000**_

Harry woke slowly. His eyes felt gummy and heavy. He breathed. Slowly and softly, staring at a moth-eaten hole in his bed hangings at Grimmauld Place.

Detlef.

He had never known anyone by that name, he had never even seen that man before, but his name, his face, his voice, all of it, even when it was so rough and broken, so thin and tired and scared, it made him feel... feel warm. It made him feel something he had never felt before, something strong, and light, and heavy, and warm all at once. Something that felt like flying and falling and sitting in front of the fire in the Common Room and hugs from Mrs Weasley and laughing with Ron and finding Sirius and stroking Prongs, and yet, he still couldn't describe it completely, couldn't put a name to it.

Detlef.

He breathed out slowly, feeling something warm trail down the side of his nose and threaten to dribble into it. He brushed it away and closed his eyes.

He drew himself up, hugging his knees to his chest, his eyes squeezing shut for all of a moment as he savoured the last vestiges of that dream. That warm feeling that made his eyes ache and his skin shiver. He held to that memory of arms around him, of warm lips and work rough hands, of a voice telling him that he was loved, and _meaning_ it.

He shuddered and screwed his eyes shut, trying to imprint it as deeply into his being as possible.

Detlef. The man who loved him. Who held him. Who kissed him. Who tried to save him.

Detlef, who died.

Green eyes slid open sadly, feeling tears dribbling hotly down his cheeks. Detlef who died with his love Ulrich in a gas chamber, holding one another tightly.

Over fifty years ago.

He sighed softly and pushed himself up. It was still dark outside as he slipped out from his bed-hangings and padded on silent feet from the room. No one was awake to see him move into the kitchen and stare sightlessly around himself for a moment.

It felt as if he were still dreaming, he decided, as he slowly poured water into the kettle before setting it onto the stove. Like he were moving under water. The whole world curiously muffled and blurry around him as he got a large mug, charmed to refill and stay hot, and grabbed the first box of tea bags from the cupboard. The smell of peppermint filling his nose as he poured hot water into the mug.

He cleaned up and walked away. Moving through the silent halls and up the creaking staircases like a ghost, feeling as if he were walking in an unfamiliar place despite knowing where he was. Feeling out of place, lost, as if he didn't belong as he went higher and higher.

He climbed to the roof and sat upon the tiles, watching the sun rise up over London, warming his hands on his tea mug as the wind raked through his hair, and dawn unfolded across the sky in front of him in flawless beauty, green, pink and gold staining the clouds as birds sang around him. London, for the moment, silent around him. Sleeping.

Warming his hands on the mug of tea, he watched the world around him awaken, and the dream he had been walking in, slowly begin to fade.

Distantly, as the day went on and the light grew brighter and London became more active around him, he could hear Sirius singing Christmas Carols at the top of his lungs, apparently delighted that he wouldn't be alone this Christmas. He shivered slightly, mug pressed against his chest as the wind around him grew harsher, the clouds gathering heavily overhead, beginning to threaten snow. The first flakes began to fall as he heard Mrs Weasley's voice distantly call him through one of the open windows – not that she knew he was up here.

The cold had seeped into him, numbing everything, his hair and clothing whipped and plucked by the snow that whirled around him. He couldn't see London anymore.

This felt familiar.

This cold, right through to his bones, the snow falling around him, and a bitter wind that whipped his cheeks.

He felt a world away from where he knew he was as he stretched a hand out, fingers threading through the air currents, snow-flakes flowing between and melting on his skin, shades paler than he recalled, his fingers younger and smaller than he thought they should have been. There was ink on his fingers. Why was that? He hadn't seen paper nor pen in weeks, too busy with food smuggling for the resistance to write anything, and he had never been one for diaries. He would have thought Detlef kept a diary, oh, sorry a _journal_. Diaries are for girls. But he knew his love could neither read nor write. His schooling being what it was, and his father being the way _he_ was.

The sound of the doorbell jarred him from memories that he wasn't entirely sure were his own, Mrs Black screaming fit to break the dead and tearing away memories of leaning out of a freight train in a blizzard, his fingers outstretched to the wind, just like now, knowing he was close, so close, on his way to Poland, to the camp where his love was waiting. To where Detlef was labouring in Auschwitz Monowice fuel factory.

Harry drew his trembling hand back and wrapped it once again securely around his mug, the warmth of his tea chasing away the chill of the snow.

Why was he remembering this?

Were they even memories?

Figments of his imagination?

The idea that they could have been sent from Voldemort was discarded before it was even conceived. That man could not conceive the emotions that Harry felt when he thought of Detlef, he could not understand nor feel nor even _begin_ to replicate what Ulrich felt for that man. What Harry was feeling through him. That determination, that hope, that... _love_.

He took a deep breath, his eyes closing as he tilted his head up, feeling snowflakes splash and melt onto his skin.

Yes.

It was love.

That feeling he couldn't name before now, so huge and impossible and unknown. That had been love.

A love he had never experienced nor felt, the love of an individual who wished to spend their life together, of someone who would walk through fire.

Of someone who would walk to their death to protect him.

Of someone who would ignore that sacrifice and spend a year and a half looking for him.

Just to spend their final moments together in a Gas Chamber, and die with a smile on their faces, and their arms around one another.

He breathed out, his eyes opening slowly as the mist from between his lips was stolen by the wind and light glowed distant and white between heavy black snow-clouds.

Love.

He had been loved.

Whether he was Ulrich, or Ulrich was him, or just a dream, or a figment of his imagination, he had felt _loved_.

He had been loved.

_**000**_

**Chapter End. Okay. /wipes eyes.**

**Echoes of Green has been a long time coming. It was conceived in April, on the twentieth, in 2014, my final year of University while I was surfing tumblr and saw a post, in the background I had Scars (Stronger for Life) by Corrine May playing.**

**And it broke my heart.**

**This is the Tumblr post that did it: **Imagine your OTP slow-dancing to a love song, with Person A quietly singing the words in Person B's ear.  
Imagine this happening during the apocalypse and they both know they're going to die soon

**And then... I started writing.**

**The first extract was seen on my facebook that day. After that, I set the story aside for when the next attack of Feels came. It was very much a work of the moment. And then... I came back. And I finished it. And it still breaks my heart to write it.**

**It will be sad and angsty and what have you in the beginning. But it ****will**** improve.**


	2. Chapter 2

_**000**_

**ECHOES OF GREEN**

Drunken escapades lead to Mukurou showing everyone their past lives, only some aren't as happy as others. Poland, 1944, Auschwitz, "Become my love again?", "Yes.", "You'll find me, right?", "Yes.", "I love you." And then the gas came.

Hayato Gokudera / Harry Potter  
Detlef Brandt / Ulrich Himmelreich

**Warning**  
Angst.  
A fuck ton of angst in the beginning chapters.  
Slash, character death, substance abuse, nazi-atrocities described.

_**000**_

**Chapter Two  
**

Hayato knew he was worrying Juudaime but... what could he do?

He could barely scrape together enough will to drag himself to the kitchen and eat, never mind lose his temper or rise to the teasing of that Lawn-head or Baseball-freak. Even the Harpy's attempts to goad his ire had done nothing more than make him retreat to his room with a sigh and a now familiar burning in his eyes. He had never considered himself the weepy sort, there was always just too much to be angry about instead of cry over. Crying had never helped. Not even Detlef had been one for crying.

It had been a week since that Mist Bastard got drunk and showed them their past lives. There were small changes amongst them, Reborn was even more fond of being cryptic than before and his casual clothes were less designer and now looser fitting than before. Shamal was still a horndog, a lifetime as a nun had apparently done little to kerb that particular vice, he was however more polite to the ladies now, no more objectification and groping upon greeting. He kept his hands to himself. Ryohei, he had been a soldier in his past life, a World War 1 British infantry man who died of septicaemia in a field hospital – he hadn't even known, he had carried his commanding officer there and passed out from exhaustion once the man was in surgery only to pass away during the night from the infected bullet-grazing on his stomach. He stood straighter, stiff backed, he was much more restrained than before, disciplined, if that were at all possible. But oddly enough, even more playful and energetic during downtime, as if making up for the life he lost in war, he was now determined to live his life to the fullest.

And then there was him.

He who had withdrawn away from everyone, curled up into his room just turning those last moments over and over in his head, loss and grief and hallow, _gnawing_, empty pain in his chest as Ulrich's last words whispered in his ears like a mantra, a prayer, a curse, a _condemnation_.

_I love you_

The winter rain was appropriate as he stared out of his window, remembering. The first time he had ever spoken with Ulrich had been on a rainy day. The blond had been looking for one of the sheep, the field had flooded when the river burst, it broke some of the fencing and one of them sheep had gone missing. Detlef had been hiding from his father in the hollow oak-tree from the rain when Ulrich had seen the white of his legs, visible in the light and called to him. His blond hair plastered to his pale skin with rain, his grandfather's flatcap doing little to protect him from the lashing rain as he exclaimed over finding him in the storm. Sheep forgotten, Ulrich had hustled him back to his home where he lived with his grandmother, his father having signed for the Army, his mother long dead in his youth from pneumonia. It had been the first time in his life that someone had cared for him simply because he was a person and thus deserving of care. He remembered watching Ulrich hang his clothing up to dry as he sat on the sofa wrapped in a soft patch-work quilt Nana Himmelreich had made, his sodden blond hair beginning to dry, springing up in wild golden curls, candle-light making it look like a halo. He had been absolutely mesmerised that such... an angel would care about _him_. The drunken mistake of the village floosy and gambling drunkard who couldn't hold a job down because of his temper.

And that had been the moment he fell in love with him.

He had thought the boy fair before, seeing him for the first time during the summer market, but now, seeing him fuss and bustle about the homely kitchen making sure everyone was warm, fed and plied with what he felt was a suitable amount of tea, he had fallen in love with the kind angel. After that, it became common sight to see the two of them together, helping out on Ulrich's farm as his grandmother was just too old and frail to do a lot of the work that needed doing. Or that he would go running to the farm house whenever his father was feeling particularly violent, and end up curled up tightly in Ulrich's bed, the two of them chattering quietly about what needed doing the next day.

He had been so angry when he heard one of the girls bragging to everyone about how she was Ulrich's girlfriend one spring and confronted him, it had been true and he had refused to speak to his bestfriend for weeks. That had been the first time he had broken into his father's stash of alcohol. Three weeks of being utterly miserable and broody and drunk, he had gotten into so many fights those days. Ulrich had been frantic and in tears when he finally braved the Brandt household to find him, he had been shaking like a leaf with terror about getting anywhere near Adolf Brandt, his father, who was known for being violent at the drop of a hat. It had been the sight of his black eyes and split lip that had Ulrich throwing his arms around him, babbling apologies for driving him away, for not telling him, for touching the girl he liked, and a hundred other things. And instead of saying anything, he caught Ulrich's cheeks between his hands and kissed him.

'_It was never about her_,' he told the stunned blond.

"G-Gokudera-kun?"

Hayato shook himself out of his memories and glanced over his shoulder, Tsuna peering through his door, expression twisted in concern. Like everyone else, his behaviour had shifted a little too, he was more comfortable in himself, more willing to speak up but still the same kind, easily startled Juudaime he always had been.

"Are you..." he trailed off before shaking his head and coming into the room fully at the sight of his Storm Guardian's grey face, his red rimmed sunken in eyes and unkempt greasy hair. "You're not alright," he muttered sadly, closing the door behind him softly.

He turned away from the brunet, staring silently at the far wall unmoving as he felt the edge of his bed dip with Tsuna's weight. A hand gently landed on his shoulder, warm and small. He could almost taste the hesitancy in the air as Tsuna tried to think of what to say, try to bring him even the slightest piece of comfort. Hayato didn't deserve it. That kindness, that comfort, he didn't deserve Tsuna's concern or his consideration. He was a... He _forgot_ **Ulrich**. He forgot their promise.

_You'll find me again?_

"I looked up Auschwitz," Tsuna finally said, his voice soft, as if he weren't willing to disturb the silence of the room as his hand pressed more firmly to Hayato's arm.

Of course Juudaime looked up Auschwitz.

He was concerned and anxious about him even though he didn't deserve it.

"But... That's not all, is it?" Tsuna whispered, "If – if it were just... just that, you wouldn't be – you don't have to tell me," he breathed, his hand slowly sliding away from Hayato's arm, "But I'm here for you, if you need me."

He clenched his eyes shut, feeling them burn again as the bed shifted, Tsuna standing up to leave. He gasped a shaking breath, curling himself into an even tighter ball than before.

_I love you_

"I – I forgot h-him," he gasped, his voice cracking with grief. He crushed the palm of his hand into his aching eyes, feeling like he was suffocating. "I forgot him. H-how could I h-have – he – we – "

He felt the bed dip as Tsuna sat back down, not saying anything, just listening.

So Hayato told him. Everything.

Told him that he hadn't been alone in that gas chamber, that Ulrich had gone to find him. How, when the Nazis came for them, he proudly walked to the Concentration Camps, secure in the knowledge that he had managed to save Ulrich from that fate, never dreaming that he would join the Resistance and come _looking_ for him. Never dreaming that he would finally be reunited with the one he loved most in the very room they were going to die in. He told him everything. And his promise.

_You'll find me again?_

"I said I would find him again. But I didn't. I f-forgot. _I forgot_."

Tsuna's hand was back on his arm, steadying, firm, and warm as he trembled, trying to swallow back tears that he didn't deserve to cry. Crying was relief, it was cleansing. He had **forgotten** Ulrich. He didn't _deserve_ relief. He _should_ suffer. He was a horrible lover, and a weak, horrible friend for unloading his problems onto Juudaime who was too kind to tell him off as he should, who wouldn't ditch him, failure as he was, like he should have done. How could he be worthy of being the Neo-Primo Storm Guardian after _betraying_ the memory of his true love? If he could not maintain his loyalty, his promise, to the most important person in his world, _how_ could he be trusted with Tsuna? He _shouldn't_ be trusted with Tsuna! He wasn't good enough! He -

Tsuna squeezed his arm, as if reading his mind, "But you remembered," his voice rang out strongly, no longer soft and uncertain. Hayato took a shuddering breath and turned his head.

Sunset gold and orange glimmered in the depths of honeyed brown eyes and Hayato felt his breath catch in his lungs as Tsuna smiled at him, Sky Flame shimmering in the depths of his eyes like the depths of a Fire Opal.

"You remembered," Tsuna reminded him. "And now we can go and find him."

_You'll find me again?_

_I will._

_**000**_

Harry imagined he would have enjoyed Christmas a great deal more if he hadn't had to put up with his, admittedly well meaning, friends. It had taken until sundown before the voices in Grimmauld Place had started to get panicked when they couldn't find him, Harry hadn't even noticed as he sat on the roof, mug of steaming tea against his chest, watching the snow swirling through the hair, his mind a thousand miles away in the past. It was when Remus's Wolf Patronus pulled up beside him and spoke that he realised how cold he was, numb, and soaking wet, his hair clumped with snow and ice.

"_Harry, where are you? Please come back to Grimmauld Place, we're very worried,_" the Wolf told him before vanishing, its duty done.

Harry sighed and dumped his tea out completely, the Charms on the mug going dormant at the action before he swung back into Buckbeak's room, gently rubbing the Hippogriff's side as he opened the door and made his way downstairs. He felt numb, still far away, as he quickly showered and changed his clothes before making himself known in the kitchen, thankfully, Molly seemed uncertain about fussing over him after his disappearing act. The same could not have been said about Hermione and Ron, or even Ginny. They cornered him after dinner upstairs and dragged him into some kind of meeting where Hermione tried to force him to talk about how he _must_ be feeling misunderstood, and attacked, and how he wasn't being possessed by Voldemort so he should stop thinking he's going to attack everyone and running away from them. Even Ginny got in on the action, not giving him a chance to say anything before explaining about how she felt when possessed by Voldemort and since Ron had _seen_ him thrashing around in his bed then _obviously_ he should stop being so stupid and thinking that he was abducted and possessed or turned into a snake to attack her father because he hadn't been.

It was exhausting to try and explain to Hermione that, no, he did not feel misunderstood, or guilty, and – Oh don't be ridiculous _of course_ you are! You're angry that everyone is talking about you behind your back about things that have everything to do with you but they refuse to say it to your face, you feel betrayed and abandoned!

After that, it was several days of Harry feeling numb, out of sorts, dreaming of Ulrich and Detlef, remembering a warm farm house with a well meaning father who taught him his knots and how to fish and care for horses, of a grandmother who would make tea and fuss over his hair and spend her evenings knitting and sewing and repairing his clothes and the clothes of anyone in the village for coin. Of winter nights in bed with the love of his life, making their own warmth under the covers, of lips and teeth, and hands, of touches soft and reverent, rough and possessive, of a voice that could sooth his fears in one breath and inflame his desire in the next.

Hermione continued to try and corner him about his strange behaviour, Harry continued to find refuge on the roof out of reach and lost himself in snow and better times.

He nearly startled Ron into walking into the display case of severed heads when he stubbed his foot one morning and swore, loudly, in German while hopping around in pain.

Christmas morning only brought memories of Christmases past with Detlef, the good and the bad. And the one Christmas he spent without his love, cold, alone, hiding in a rotten abandoned barn in Poland, shivering behind mouldering bales of forgotten straw in his coat and tatty scarf. His breath misting in front of him as his numb fingers fumbled with the dried meats in his bag, feverishly reading a map and a letter from the Resistance about Auschwitz, about a possible way in.

He idly handled Hermione's talking homework planner, ignorant to Ron's look of concern and annoyance, his mind a million miles away and not listening to his complaints about the young woman's choices of presents.

It had been Christmas when they were fifteen that he and Detlef had lost their virginity to each other. Neither of them had known what they were doing at the time, it had been embarrassingly awkward and fumbling, and over entirely too quickly – mortifyingly so in Detlef's case. It took several weeks before either of them scraped up the courage to try again, he recalled with a small smile as he stared down at the planner. They got better the more they practiced, as you would expect.

He shivered, a soft ache twinging in his chest.

He felt tired, and sad all of a sudden. Lonely.

Was it possible to miss someone you had never met before?

To want to feel their hand on your shoulder? The smell of their skin? The feel of lips on his own, the taste of saliva and skin, to hug and to hold? To just... touch.

He missed it.

He set the homework planner aside, rubbing his chest in melancholy. He wondered what Detlef would have made of all this. Of who he was now. Hogwarts. _Magic_ – he had always loved to hear Ulrich when he read fairy tales to him as a child, especially that banned book that Ulrich had found in a rubbish pile coming back from work one evening, by a British Author calle Tolkein. Harry twitched a smile in disbelief, who knew 'The Hobbit' would be so popular even now? Maybe he should look into finding a copy. He had enjoyed it, even as a child reading it in Infant's School. It would be nice, if only for the memories, he decided as he opened Sirius and Remus's present, a series of Defence books called '_Practical Defensive Magic and its Use Against the Dark Arts_', there were five volumes, all of them a good two inches thick and filled with moving colour illustrations of all the counter-jinxes and hexes it described, and that was just the first volume. A quick peek at the second one details Transfiguration and Conjuration uses and defences, the third was charms, the fourth was potions and herbology and creatures, while the final one was dedicated to Runes and their many uses. He could tell they would be highly useful in his plans for the DA – a DA he would be taking in a rapidly different direction when he got back. There was war brewing on the horizon, almost an identical rehash of the Nazi war, and _just_ like last time, he was in the middle, and on the other side. This time though. _THIS TIME_ he wouldn't be allowing his people to die, _THIS TIME_ he had no Detlef to worry about, to find, to try to rescue, to protect, _THIS TIME_ he had magic, and training, and knowledge of a life not his own, a life spent fighting, a life where he joined a Resistance, a real one. Not a garden club like the Order who spent too much time gathering intel and gossiping instead of _DOING_ something about it!

Harry set the Defence books aside with carefully steady hands.

He would not repeat the past.

He would not bury his head in the sand and hope it all went away as Ulrich had done. He was going to fight. Fight hard with _everything_ he had.

There would never be another Detlef and Ulrich, torn apart, sent to their deaths before their times.

It was time to stop playing around.

_**000**_

"Arthur," Molly began, her tone sharp, "you've had your bandages changed. Why have you had your bandages changed a day early, _Arthur_? They told me they wouldn't need doing until tomorrow," the Weasley Matriarch declared pointedly, her eyes like lasers as she loomed over her increasingly flustered husband whose eyes flickered this way and that nervously. Like a child who had been caught stealing from the cookie jar, Harry observed in mild amusement.

"What?" he squeaked, pulling the bed covers up a little higher on his chest as if they could shield him from his wife's growing ire. "No, no – it's nothing – it's – I – " He deflated under his wife's silent glare, her brown eyes locked intensely on his face. Harry suppressed a grin. Ahhh, if only they could weaponize the stare of a displeased wife/mother during the war, interrogations would have been a great deal faster and less bloody. "Well – now don't get upset, Molly, but Augustus Pye had an idea... he's the Trainee Healer, you know, lovely young chap and very interested in... um... complementary medicine... I mean, some of these old Muggle remedies... well, they're called _stitches_ - "

Harry knocked over the water jug by accident, cutting him off and drawing Molly's attention from where she had been swelling up with increasing fury.

"You let a _Healer_ give you _stitches_?" he demanded sharply. _Mein Gott_! Even if this Healer Pye were Muggleborn there was no way he had the same kind of education or training as a Muggle Nurse! He would have had to falsify a lot of records, paper and electrical, apply for the right funding, and attend a university! Unless he – but no, that wouldn't work either! Ulrich had _seen_ what could happen when folk who didn't have a fucking clue what they were doing tried to mess around with surgery, things like stitches, setting bones, handling burns – it could get nasty, bad, he had seen people with _necrosis_ and gangrene!

He yanked the covers away from Mr Weasley, whisking them away in a sharp efficient motion that had the rest of the group yelping and exclaiming as he neatly tugged aside his shirt to examine the bandages around his chest. Shoddy wrapping, too tight in places and compressing his lungs, too loose in others. He scowled and began to unwrap them.

"Harry! Stop, what are you _DOING?_" Hermione spluttered in horror.

"In order to get _any_ kind of muggle medical training, that Healer would have to falsify a ton of documents both paper and electronic, sneak into a university, and into an emergency ward, there's no way he has any kind of legitimate medical training in muggle techniques," he explained shortly as he finished unwrapping the bandages and set them aside. "Instead of berating me, reroll those so I can wrap him back up later," he told her, handing her the end of the bandage without looking as he carefully began to peel back stinking cotton and linen pads filled with yellow discharge, pus and venom and blood.

He grimaced and started swearing under his breath again when he saw the stitches.

"Is – is it really that bad?" Mr Weasley asked when he saw the expression on Harry's face.

The Gryffindor gave him a dark look, "If your Healer is so interested in complimentary medicine, then he should look into getting an actual education instead of getting a basic idea of what to do by reading a few lines in a text book. It's like expecting to be able to brew a perfect Polyjuice Potion with just a list of ingredients," he snapped before looking at Bill. "Do me a favour? Conjure some rubber gloves, a pair of thin, sharp scissors, a curved needle, and some plastic thread. You ever see fishing line? Something a little like that," he commanded before pointing at Remus, "Go and get some kind of antiseptic cleaning potion. I'll need to dip everything before handling it and then cut those stitches out."

Hermione nearly dropped the bandages, "Harry! If the healer doesn't have any training - "

"I've stitched myself more than enough times to know what I'm doing," he stated shortly, shutting her up, "If you think the Dursleys would risk taking me to Accident and Emergency then you're more deluded than the Ministry," he continued without looking at her, eyeing Mr Weasley's stitches carefully with an expression of utter disgust. "_Mein Gott_, what a fucking mess," he complained. It looked like an eleven year old trying to stitch a tear shut in a backpack – messy. _VERY_ messy.

"This will hurt," he warned the red head, "Your healer is a moron and sewed it shut with cotton thread as if he were sewing a hole in a sock closed."

"Is that not how you're supposed to do it?" Mr Weasley asked curiously, eyeing the black threads across the oozing punctures on his chest.

Harry refrained from sneering, but only just, "Decidedly not. Maybe in the '40s when supplies were tight and everyone was on rationing, or in a field hospital on the front-lines or in a Resistance somewhere. But now a days there are better things," he stated before Remus came back in with the required potions and a severely flustered trainee Healer. That would be Mister Pye then.

Harry ignored him and immediately got to work, he used the antiseptic potion to sterilise the tools, and also had Bill conjure some clamps in order to hold the tears shut while he works so as not to cause Mister Weasley to bleed out while he worked. They drew the curtains around the bed to stop others from watching, the children were sent out and Molly stayed, holding her husband's hand as she watched her adoptive son quickly, efficiently and calmly go about snipping away all the black thread in her husband's chest, explaining why and what he was doing to the thoroughly enthralled Augustus Pye as he worked. He used the least pain inducing stitch he could for Mister Weasley, the kind that would be easy enough to snip out when it came time to remove them – the lambert suture, it was the one he was most familiar with. The kind he used when putting soldiers and rebels back together, the kind he used once on Detlef's head after a bar-fight that got out of hand. He remembered his fingers slick and warm and covered in copper smelling scarlet-brown that got under his nails and into the grooves of his fingerprints and took scrubbing with yellowing soap and a stiff bristle brush that left his skin pink and sore to remove. Rough cotton bandages that wrapped around dirty skin. The smell of herbal ointments and tangy chemicals. Of field hospitals and dirty backrooms where they had to make do.

He worked and spoke, but was aware of nothing. It felt like he was dreaming once again.

Or had he woken up?

It was a very tired Ulrich, who had to remind himself that his name was _Harry_ after the third time he thought Ron was addressing someone else on the way back to Grimmauld Place – Mrs Weasley holding his arm tightly, patting his hand gratefully every now and again as she did so. She didn't approve of the stitches, she didn't like seeing them in her husband, but watching Harry perform them, explaining the whole procedure, the whys, the hows, the whats, she accepted that they were a necessary evil. One that was stopping her husband from bleeding out.

"Where did you learn muggle medicine like that anyway, Harry?" Remus asked curiously as they tromped into Grimmauld Place, the Gryffindor tiredly rubbing his face and answering with an odd garbled string of German.

Everyone stared but he didn't seem to notice as he wearily made his way up the stairs, looks were exchanged a heartbeat before Harry's voice, speaking English, called down to Ron that if he wanted to use the bathroom he should go now because he wanted a damn shower.

_**000**_

Tsuna sighed, aggrieved, "Mukurou-kun, none of us _asked_ you to show us our past lives, that lies on Reborn and Reborn alone. Please, anything you can do would be appreciated. Hayato is... I would say traumatised but heart-sick would be more appropriate," he admitted, glancing to his sickly looking Right Hand. He looked even more ghastly in the stark light of day than the dim, twilight gloom of his bedroom.

The Mist Guardian glanced at the Storm with a scornful expression that did very little to hide the concern and guilt that brewed under his thin veneer of haughtiness.

Hayato wet his lips, "I... I wasn't alone when I died," he rasped, and Tsuna's eyes were just sharp enough to see the Italian flinch ever so slightly. "My... My other half came for me," he managed to gasp out, "He came... He... I _promised_ – I – _promised..._ I promised I would find him again... I said I would find him in the next life," he coughed miserably, gritting his teeth against the familiar burn.

Mukurou looked away, pained.

"Even if I desired to explore your past life, the chances of this person even being human are slim to none, never mind actually being alive at this point in time. Reincarnation is not that simple," he stated coldly.

"I would still like for you to try, Mukurou-kun," Tsuna said firmly, staring up at him with orange glimmering eyes as Hayato withdrew even further into himself at the Mist Guardian's words.

He grimaced again and shook his head.

Tsuna frowned grimly at him, "You _owe_ us," he told the older boy, his voice hard, startling the Mist Guardian into actually looking at his Boss. Tsuna would be the first to admit he was spineless, and more than a bit of a pushover – number one at being unable to refuse a request was still present in Fuuta's ranking of him, that hadn't changed in the last few years, but when it came to the happiness of his friends he was unyielding and harder than rock. "We didn't ask you to show us our past lives, we didn't want you to. At least _try_ so that we can set this issue to rest."

Mukurou sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Very well. I will see what I can do," he intoned wearily. And if Tsuna saw the guilt in his eyes, he knew well enough not to point it out as they followed the Mist Guardian into his room.

_**000**_

**Done.**

**Okay guys, sorry it took so long but – Echoes is a very emotionally draining story to write. It takes a lot of time and effort for me to get into the right mindset to write it, I typically end up with a lot of alcohol, sad music, tissues, and then spend a long time looking at pictures of Auschwitz and just generally trying to emotionally destroy myself so I can write. **

**So if any of these chapters just don't feel up to par, that's because I don't think I was able to really grasp that same heartbreak that brought about the first chapter. And for that, I'm sorry. I am trying.**


	3. Chapter 3

_**000**_

**ECHOES OF GREEN**

Drunken escapades lead to Mukurou showing everyone their past lives, only some aren't as happy as others. Poland, 1944, Auschwitz, "Become my love again?", "Yes.", "You'll find me, right?", "Yes.", "I love you." And then the gas came.

Hayato Gokudera / Harry Potter  
Detlef Brandt / Ulrich Himmelreich

**Warning**  
Angst.  
A fuck ton of angst in the beginning chapters.  
Slash, character death, substance abuse, nazi-atrocities described.

_**000**_

**Chapter Three**

It was no easy thing, tracing a life-line.

His eye was not merely for show and he _had been_ truthful to Tsunayoshi-kun that first time they met, that time when he bared his fangs to his soon-to-be-Sky and flashed both illusion and weapon toward vulnerable flesh and open-pleading eyes. The Six Paths of Reincarnation were, as he had tried to explain once, a real thing. Reincarnation was the life-cycle as he had come to understand it, once death took you, it set you from one path onto another via some-manner of transitional method. Some called it a white-light, others saw it as a cross-roads, some even spoke of places like campfires in the dark, or train stations at night, even a bus-stop in the middle of nowhere. It was different for everyone and most were not even aware of those transitional locations between paths.

Paths between realities, between beings and concepts. All things were connected by the paths.

While under the scalpel of his wretched former family, bleeding and crying until he learned that sobbing did nothing more than mess up their tests and prompt them to begin again, he had been forced via traumatic Flame Saturation and severe hypnotism and hallucinatory drugs, amongst other things, to experience each Path in his current form through his eye. He witnessed six lives, six states, six deaths, six ends, through that one eye until it burned and mutated and changed.

He had been an owl, an ivy plant, the very mist itself, he had been a demon, an angel, and even seen himself before he was reborn as he was now, once again upon the path of Humanity. He had seen himself as Morainn, daughter of Caolifae, a girl-child in Roman occupied Britain, daughter of a Celt and captured as a Slave. Passed around like a water-bottle at a sportsmeet within the soldiers' camp until they sent her back to Rome – she died before she reached it, the victim of a botched abortion that the slavers tried to force on her so they could sell her as 'virgin' stock.

He had been forced to experience every Path, and once the madness had faded, when those animal instincts he had as an owl, when the demonic viciousness, when the righteous wrath of the angel, when the smothering suffocating veil of mist, the parasitic selfishness of the ivy, and the angry _hate_ and _pain_ of the girl-child Morainn had burned itself out, he stood in a room painted with blood and gore and felt... _old_.

Old and cold.

He, more than anyone alive, knew life, knew death, knew everything that came after.

So when he told Tsunayoshi that it would not only be difficult, but next to impossible, he had not been exaggerating.

And Tsunayoshi had understood even as he continued to ask him to delve down the Path of someone, to trace his Path to someone else and then follow the line of their Path to their current state.

Had anyone else asked, he would have laughed and walked away, ignored their request as so much hot air and never deigned to even answer such a request with the refusal that would have been so painfully _obvious_ that they needn't have even asked it of him to begin with. But this was Tsunayoshi. And he had asked, despite knowing those difficulties, or at least having an idea of them as those ominously glimmering brown eyes stared into his own.

He was a sucker for New Souls.

Just as he could not refuse his Nagi-chan, he could not refuse his Tsunayoshi-kun.

So he set himself in front of the miserable Storm, look in the ghastly red rimmed sunken in eyes, the greasy lank hair, the perpetually downturned mouth and the sallow, grey shade of his skin. Whomever he had been in the past had felt, and felt _strongly_. That was good. Emotion was powerful. It would pave the way more easily than memory, than thought. For emotion could choke and drown and colour it all.

He laid his hands against the Storm's papery-cool skin, fighting not to flinch as the feeling of pervading _wrong_ seeped through his fingertips, he had knocked his Path out of alignment in showing him his last-human life. He was drowning in his prior self. The emotions, the memories, they were overwhelming his mind, choking his soul, twisting at his sense of self.

"This will hurt, at first," he warned his fellow Guardian, the two of them sat cross-legged upon the thick plush carpeting of the Vongola Estate – an estate none of them had been keen on moving into, but ended up doing so regardless simply because it was easier.

He nodded silently, jade green eyes staring into mismatched blue and red, pleading without words, so heartbrokenly resigned and yet hopeful. That expression was more painful than he anticipated.

And with a sharp twist, he snapped the Storm Guardian's path back into place, squinting and wishing he could close his eyes to the shout of pain that tore from his ragged throat. Perhaps it was a blessing that he had been too busy sobbing and wailing into his pillows until now, his voice could not generate that ear-blowing volume that they had become familiar with.

He held the Italian's head tightly between his palms, forcing their eyes to connect again. This was far from over.

He pushed in, eye burning and straining.

His blue-eye slid shut, and he lost himself to memories and feelings.

Saw the pain and misery and self-loathing of the last few days. Saw the triumph and happiness, the fear, confusion, loyalty, affection, irritation, rage, humiliation, and determination of the last few _years_ at Tsunayoshi Sawada's side. The happiness and heartbreaking relief that someone had finally accepted him, _him_ the bastard musician that no one would even take a chance on. The desperation, loneliness, bitter disappointment of life before Tsunayoshi trying to gain acceptance in Famiglia after Famiglia after Famiglia. The fear, pain, betrayal, hurt, confusion, and anger that choked him as he tried again and again to escape his father's estate, his sister and her efforts to murder him before he managed to obtain his freedom. The warmth and happiness, the simplistic enjoyment of a child with his mother, even if he didn't know it at the time, that acknowledgement of affection from the silver haired woman with the green eyes so much like his own who sat him on her lap and taught him how to play the piano.

Mukurou saw it all. And then the darkness before his birth. The resistance came then.

Like pushing through treacle and undergrowth, he continued forward, past what he identified as a Way-Station, trying to ignore the chill in his blood as he identified the old-styled German Train Station he had seen in photographs, the abandoned suitcases and patches depicting the Star of David, the pink clothes for homosexuality, discarded shoes and glasses, bullet-casings and blood. A Train Station from a time of War.

And then...

The room was concrete, bare, unfriendly, and uncompromising. And he was looking down at two thin figures, filthy, with short hair, their emaciated arms wound tightly around one another. Mukurou stared.

He had known... intellectually he had _known_.

But the emotions...

Tears involuntarily sprung to his eyes as the fear, the hope, the _love_ that the Storm Guardian's past Human Life felt choked him, dug its fingers in _deep_ and pulled him open, breathing into the open cavity of his chest. His whole body felt cold and hot at once, filled with something wordless he couldn't describe. No wonder... no _wonder_ the Storm was broken, bleeding, and crying inside, his whole being a jagged open wound. Emotion this powerful, powerful enough to reverberate up to him in such suffocating quantities... This was the kind of emotional response that could drive men to madness, move mountains, traverse continents, and change lives.

He could not help but feel jealous as he stared down at the two bathed in black acrid smog, the golden haired male's breath rattling in his lungs as he coughed blood into his hands and smiled with bloody teeth and teary eyes at the dark haired male.

He knelt beside the two and touched the golden haired male, stepping from one path to the next.

All of his breath left him in a whoosh.

Acceptance. Love. Happiness. Contentment.

In this black, horrid place, breathing in the smoke from the ovens where their fellow inmates' corpses were incinerated, he could feel such pure emotions just by -

He wheezed, sobbing, wanting to pull his hands away but wanting to stay as well. He had never felt this. _Ever_. Not even from Nagi-chan and that was the closest he had ever -

He did not want to leave, did not wish to step into the Way Station he could feel just beyond the last breath. He didn't think he could stomach leaving this warmth, this contentment. It... He had listened with just as much rapture, just as much desperation as the rest of the children in the Estrano labs when one of the Nurses smuggled in a Bible to read to them when the Doctors weren't looking. This, he fancied, must have been what she meant when she said the Light and Love of God, Heaven, and the embrace of the Angels.

_Find me in the next life?_ Reverberated through his whole being and Mukurou felt his breath hitch as the tiny thread that linked him back to himself through Hayato shuddered in _pain_.

_I will._

_I love you._

_I love you too._

The yawning gates of the Way Station opened before him and Mukurou staggered through them, scrubbing his eyes desperately as he looked around the bright summer field, poppies on one side, buttercups and daisies on the other. And the golden haired man who chased a shadow through a field of poppies in the distance.

He followed, and stepped into darkness, fought his way through, and witnessed the death of a parent, and the banishing of a Tyrant.

Loneliness, pain, confusion, resignation, frustration, apathy – the child's life was not pleasant. It was not _bad_. But Mukurou had seen how too little affection, and too much condemnation, could twist a child. Twist them until they shattered and broke. The spirit was delicate, all things considered.

Magic, happiness, joy, pain, confusion – a life that had been grey apathy and resignation, coloured by jagged pain and frustration burst into colour and life and feeling as an entirely new world opened before him.

And then –

Mukurou felt as though he were doused in cold water and he fell from the Path, the thread to his own body snapping him back.

He hit his body and found himself flung away from the Storm with a yell of pain and fright.

Darkness... He slept...

Bits and pieces falling away... His mind turning on his memories to protect his sanity...

He fell from the Path...

_**000**_

Mukurou's unholy screech and subsequent passing into unconsciousness had thrown the whole group into an uncertain silence, anticipation and dread coiling in the pit of their stomachs. Hayato had immediately retreated to his room once again with a bottle of something old and expensive in hand – it wasn't long before they heard things breaking inside. Nagi hovered at the Mist Guardian's side, her Flame active as she clutched his hand desperately. She told them that something had jarred him from the Path, bits and pieces of him were trying to shake themselves free, whipped away by the space between, that she was trying to hold him together, catch the bits and pieces that fell from his mind and return them. Had they been anyone else it would be doomed to failure, but they had been within one another's spiritual and mental, even physical, headspace for so long and with so much emotional and spiritual evolutions and growths that there was no one else who could have aided either of them through their circumstances. All the while, Reborn had to kick his foolish student harder than usual as he tried to bury himself in guilt for putting Mukurou in such a position, and destroying Hayato's hopes.

Four days later, he woke.

_**000**_

Despite the trek, and the possible security issues, Harry insisted on making the trip to St Mungos every day in order to check on Mr Weasley. His stitches were holding well, no sign of inflammation or infection, the flesh wasn't even overly red nor angry looking, nor was it hot to the touch. All in all, it was healing perfectly and about as well as could be expected.

In the time when he wasn't at the Hospital, he was reading through the Defence books and questioning the Order about the previous war, trying to get a feel for Voldemort's methods, his tactics, and how the Ministry, the civilians, reacted to them as well. He couldn't say he was met with much success. And his frustration was beginning to show as every time he questioned, Mrs Weasley would snap and snarl that he was too young to know and he wasn't of age. He had to remind himself, repeatedly, that she was a mother and thus trying to defend the children she viewed as her own (him included), but it was also _chafing_ to a painful degree because he didn't _feel_ young. He felt old and tired and cranky as all hell. And numb.

Always numb.

Deep inside like a jagged open wound that had ceased to sting and now just throbbed.

His mounting frustration wasn't only with Mrs Weasley doing her damn best to keep him ignorant and easily manipulated, but also with Sirius who was becoming increasingly surly and taciturn, often retreating to Buckbeak's room in order to avoid everyone else. His gloom and unhappiness seeped through the house like noxious gas, the vapours oozing under doorways and filling their lungs like desolate lead. Harry could forgive a lot for mental instability, especially since Wizards seemed to have very little concept of it, but what he couldn't forgive was the simple fact that Sirius was _allowing_ it to control him. It wasn't that he was helplessly caught up by it, he _wallowed_ in it wholeheartedly and made no effort to pick himself up. Harry wanted to shake him sometimes. He was the man who escaped Azkaban, he outran two _entire_ nations for over a year, and now he was _letting_ himself be penned up like a prisoner in a house filled with nothing but nightmares and pain? _GROW UP AND LEAVE IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT!_

That frustration was forgotten on the last day before they returned to school while Ron was gaping at his chessboard, Harry watching the pieces with narrow eyed concentration, shifting them carefully. His red headed friend was stunned, he was actually having to think about this. Harry had never played chess like this before. Until now, Ron wasn't even a hundred-percent sure Harry even knew the rules properly (he had never really corrected this because... well... he liked being able to win against both Harry and Hermione – wizarding chess was a little different from muggle chess, neither of them had really grasped that, until now when Harry apparently _had_).

"Harry, dear," Mrs Weasley called, poking her head into their bedroom – without knocking, regardless of both Hermione and Ginny playing with Crookshanks on the floor while they played chess on the bed. "Could you come down to the kitchen? Professor Snape would like a word with you."

There was a pause before Harry sighed heavily and nodded, "Alright, I'll be right down. I resign," he declared prodding his King to fall over, the chess piece scowling and grumbling the whole while, "You would have been taken in twelve moves anyway, stop whining," he told the chess piece before getting up.

"What's he want with you?" asked Ron, looking mildly unnerved and frowning, "You haven't done anything, have you?"

Harry snorted darkly, "Since when has that mattered with Snape?" he asked rhetorically before he slipped out and made his way down the stairs. The room was silent when he stepped in and he idly stared at his Professor for the first time since he had that curious dream that had... changed his entire outlook. He imagined that was what this whole thing was about, his sudden personality shift, no doubt people were worried about possession or influence by Voldemort or some kind of bullshit and were sending their resident Dark Magic specialist to take a look at him. But it was strange.

Snape was technically unchanged but Harry... Looking at him... he was so _different_. Or rather, what Harry was seeing he could _finally_ understand.

Snape was a broken man.

Deep within his chest was a wound that had never turned numb, never stopped screaming its pain at him. The place where his heart used to be, the same empty space that Harry now felt in his own chest. An old wound. It's edges festered and gangrenous from continued picking. No matter how many times it tried to heal, he would purposefully tear the scabs away, reopen the wound, stink his nails into the edges and make it bleed anew. He would never let the pain fade, never let the wound heal, and so it festered, poisoning his thoughts and his soul until it consumed him.

What a pitiable man.

But he wasn't alone in the room. Sirius was there too. Just as broken, just as pitiable.

He coughed politely to gain their attention, as both of them were busily glaring in opposite directions to each other. "You wished to see me, Professor Snape?" Harry asked steadily as he closed the door quietly behind him. He strode to the table and sat himself down in the middle, between the two, and turned his attention to the Potions' Master – he had decided, not long after he resolved to take the DA in their new direction, to do away with foolish things like petty dislike and old insults.

Snape stared at him for a heartbeat, his eyes narrowed and calculating, the lines of his face harsh, framed between curtains of greasy black hair. He had been brewing. Recently. The smell still lingered.

The Potions Master sniffed a moment, "I was supposed to see you alone, Potter," he said, a familiar sneer curling on his lips. "But Black -"

"IS THE Master of this House," Harry interjected loudly as Sirius attempted to speak, silencing him. The two adults stared at him in shock, and he treated them to a flat stare, "it is his prerogative to make use of every room as he wishes, and also as my Guardian to be present during any out of hours Student-Teacher interviews and discussions."

Snape sneered, "I am surprised you even know what that word means, Potter," he retorted cuttingly.

"You'd be surprised by what I happen to know if you bothered to actually pay attention, Professor," he replied just as sharply, with a narrow stare even as Sirius stood up so fast, his face scarlet with anger, that his chair fell back to clatter on the ground. "You asked to see me for a reason and I can only hope that it wasn't to waste your time by insulting my intelligence as if you haven't spent the last four years doing exactly that," he said leadingly.

Well, perhaps he wasn't as willing to let that petty dislike go as much as he wanted. He was hardly so forgiving.

The wound in his chest throbbed in pain and his eyes slid shut for a moment as he took a breath.

He was showing his ugly side. The one he was forced to develop after Detlef was taken. The hard side, the cruel side. The one that tortured and killed and manipulated in order to return to the one that mattered most. He gently pushed it aside and returned his attention to the Potions Master who was watching him as if he had never seen him before, something queer on his face that Harry couldn't identify, even with Ulrich's memories breathing understanding into his own.

"I am here on Dumbledore's orders," he finally said his voice silky and cool as he examined Harry like a bug under a microscope. "It is his wish for you to study Occlumency this term," he declared, as if this was supposed to be something that Harry was already aware of.

The Gryffindor breathed deeply, "I am afraid, Professor, I must ask you to clarify exactly what this Occlumency is. It isn't a term I have heard before."

Snape's sudden sneer looked like a cross between confused, insulted, and afraid as he glared down at him, "Of course you haven't heard of it, you stupid boy. It is the Magical defence of the mind against external penetration. An obscure branch of magic, but a highly useful one."

His heart gave a jolt. Mental arts, external penetration, something he was supposed to learn – which meant he would have to put it into practice... Dumbledore thought someone was going to try and read his mind, or possess him as Ginny had been in his second year (something that he had quite forgotten until she saw fit to remind him earlier).

"You will receive private lessons once a week, but you will not tell anybody what you are doing, least of all Dolores Umbridge. You understand?" Snape continued, as if he hadn't noticed the sudden narrowed gaze of his most detested student – and the most _troublesome_ he had ever been forced to deal with. Lock a box in the deepest darkest hole in the castle and the brat would somehow find out about it and get to it and then _open_ it.

He nodded slowly, "So it is an illegal art then," he concluded, making Snape pause.

Of all conclusions to draw...

"Correct," he admitted.

"And I assume you are to be teaching me as the Headmaster fears I have already been compromised and doesn't wish to risk any kind of backlash into his own mind or an attack of any sort," he continued easily, as if he weren't drawing correct conclusions out of thin air.

(_Just how quick was Potter's mind? Snape had never given it proper thought before. Never considered the boy was anything other than an ill-natured arrogant brute cut from the same cloth as his jock-ish dumb-as-doorknobs father._)

(_Had Potter already been possessed by the Dark Lord? The Weasley Matron had been giving reports that his behaviour had drastically changed..._)

"If that was not already obvious, Potter, I fear this may take longer than either of us wishes and doomed to failure before we even begin," he sneered disparagingly. The long stare he received was frankly unnatural and wholly perturbing. Something had changed in Potter. Something profound and deep. He was _not_ the same boy that stepped into this house before Christmas. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight and immediately climbed to his feet, unwilling to remain in the brat's presence any longer (_He refused to entertain the thought that it made him uneasy. Potter's change. It felt like there was something burning in his gaze. Something endless and all encompassing. Something beyond him_). "I will expect you at six o'clock on Monday evening, Potter. My office. If anybody asks, you are taking remedial Potions. Nobody who has seen you in my classes could deny you need them."

He turned to leave, his black clock billowing behind him, but the sound of Potter's laughter caught his heels and stayed him for a heartbeat.

"And what, may I ask, is so funny?" he hissed darkly, glaring over his shoulder at the boy.

Potter stared at him for a moment, "You would not want to know, Professor."

His lips thinned, that arrogant little -

(_His eyes were burning_)

he turned and swept out of the room, not even stopping as Black tried to call him back, getting louder and more verbally abusive with every step that Snape ignored him. Potter watching him retreat, his gaze a hot-brand against his shoulders.

_**000**_

Mukurou woke with a gasp and a screech that nearly up-tipped Nagi from her seat.

_That brat – that Ulrich – was a..._

_**Sky.**_

_**000**_

**XDDD This chapter did not go the way I intended it to. Damn you Ulrich for being so reasonable and passive-aggressive – I wanted to throw in some Harry styled temper-tantrum blow ups but it just didn't happen. When you reach a certain age, such tantrums just don't happen without extreme emotion powering them. And Harry's still kind of numb.**

**Also, yeah. Blatantly a Sky. I'll fight anyone who says otherwise.**


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